And a kiss was pressed on the clergyman’s lips:—­it shone around him.  God’s clear, bright sun shone into the chamber, where his wife, living, mild, and affectionate, awoke him from a dream, sent from God!

UPSALA.

* * * * *

It is commonly said, that Memory is a young girl with light blue eyes.  Most poets say so; but we cannot always agree with most poets.  To us memory comes in quite different forms, all according to that land, or that town to which she belongs.  Italy sends her as a charming Mignon, with black eyes and a melancholy smile, singing Bellini’s soft, touching songs.  From Scotland Memory’s sprite appears as a powerful lad with bare knees; the plaid hangs over his shoulder, the thistle-flower is fixed on his cap; Burns’s songs then fill the air like the heath-lark’s song, and Scotland’s wild thistle flowers beautifully fragrant as the fresh rose.  But now for Memory’s sprite from Sweden, from Upsala.  He comes thence in the form of a student—­at least, he wears the Upsala student’s white cap with the black rim.  To us it points out its home, as the Phrygian cap denotes Ganymede.

It was in the year 1843, that the Danish students travelled to Upsala.  Young hearts met together; eyes sparkled:  they laughed, they sang.  Young hearts are the future—­the conquering future—­in the beautiful, true and good; it is so good that brothers should know and love each other.  Friendship’s meeting is still annually remembered in the palace-yard of Upsala, before the monument of Gustavus Vasa—­by the hurra! for Denmark, in warm-hearted compliment to me.

Two summers afterwards, the visit was returned.  The Swedish students came to Copenhagen, and that they might there be known amongst the multitude, the Upsala students wore a white cap with a black rim:  this cap is accordingly a memorial,—­the sign of friendship’s bridge over that river of blood which once flowed between kindred nations.  When one meets in heart and spirit, a blissful seed is then sown.  Memory’s sprite, come to us! we know thee by the cap from Upsala:  be thou our guide, and from our more southern home, after years and days, we will make the voyage over again, quicker than if we flew in Doctor Faustus’ magic cloak.  We are in Stockholm:  we stand on the Ridderholm where the steamers lie alongside the bulwarks:  one of them sends forth clouds of thick smoke from its chimney; the deck is crowded with passengers, and the white cap with the black rim is not wanting.

We are off to Upsala; the paddles strike the waters of the Maelar, and we shoot away from the picturesque city of Stockholm.  The whole voyage, direct to Upsala, is a kaleidescope on a large scale.  It is true, there is nothing of the magical in the scenery, but landscape gives place to landscape, and clouds and sunshine refresh their variegated beauty.  The Maelar lake curves, is compressed, and widens